Her Smile

She wears the night as though it was her own.         In subtle gestures, swings her head and hips,         and walks the boulevard in search of bone         to satisfy the hate her heart now grips.  Tonight she’ll tease and please another man         without the slightest hint of love or care.         Emotions, just as foreign to her pain,         as numb as life was never to be fair.         The precious gold adorns her slenderness,         mere tokens of the price she’s paid, and still,         her path is paved with fear and bitterness.         Her shallow laughter haunts and leaves a chill.         The lies, the shame, will ever be the same.         We know her smile, but never know her name. by David Ben Foster     from A View of Ourselves “…I only the shell.” Francesco Petrarch 1304-1374